David Gessner on slowing down our lives, how this focuses our ethical treatment of the planet and ourselves, about being patient (and oh how a garden teaches patience!):

As
the writer Wendell
Berry pointed out long ago, the environmental crisis is a crisis of
character. It isn’t simply that too many of us are gulping down the gasoline
and other goodies that corporations are forever dishing out; it’s also the way
that we’re doing it. When we race to a thing, consume it, and then race off to
the next thing, there’s no sense of our ever having gotten to know that
thing—whether it’s a place, a person, an animal, or a resource. A culture of
speed can quickly become a culture of glibness. There’s a reason that
environmentalists who fight for the land and against the coring-out of the
earth so often frame the battle as one waged on behalf of our children and
grandchildren. It’s because—cliché though it may sound—that is exactly who
we are fighting for. Patience begins when we acknowledge the value in taking
this long-term view of things, when we justify the continued fight by citing
something beyond our own immediate needs, or someone beyond ourselves.

To
state it another way, it’s about breaking free from the tyranny of now. One of
the great challenges in trying to get people—including politicians—to recognize
the reality of climate change is that there always seem to be a thousand other
problems that demand our immediate attention at any given moment. We’ll react
to emergency: a hurricane, a twister, a fire. But even then, will our reaction
really entail slowing down enough to reflect on what we ought to be doing, and
how we ought to be acting, in the long term—when we’re not directly
experiencing a crisis?

To
be truly patient is to choose one thing for a while. And that means not
choosing other things. It definitely means not choosing everything. In
my own life, I’ve learned that there are some goals that cannot be achieved
without putting other things aside. The writing of books, for instance. The
same could be said of almost any other large and worthy ambition—like, say,
saving the planet. As an essential tool for that long-term goal, patience is
more than just practical. It has the power to save us from ourselves.

We
have left our land too retarded to take care of itself, much less to be of any
help to us. This is not someone else’s problem. We — you and I and everyone who
has a yard of any size — owns a big chunk of this country. Suburban development
has wrought habitat destruction on a grand scale. As these tracts expand, they
increasingly squeeze the remaining natural ecosystems, fragment them, and sever
corridors by which plants and animals might refill the voids we have created.
To reverse this process — to reconnect as many plant and animal species as we
can to rebuild intelligent suburban ecosystems — requires a new kind of garden,
new techniques of gardening, and, I emphasize, a new kind of gardener.

One of the most thoughtful reviews I have ever read, on a book I am anxious to read -- William Jordan's The Sunflower Forest. This chunk discusses how to embrace the pain of ecological destruction, turn it on its head to create power and define restoration work / gifting in the land and in our hearts:

Given
its universality, it should surprise us little that restoration is an encounter
with shame, in the face of our killing unwanted vegetation and exerting our
control over the land. This is especially shameful when we assure ourselves we
are engaging in restoration precisely in order to give life back to degraded
systems, and that our intention is to relinquish control over the land.
Restorationists cannot simply wave their divine hands, as a god might, and turn
back the ecological clock. Restorationists have to address the very real
limitations of their skills. But it is precisely by experiencing shame that
restoration produces value. As Jordan puts it: “The great value of ecological
restoration, I now believe, is that it provides an ideal, even unique context
for negotiating […] the development of a relationship between ourselves and the
classic landscape.”

In
this way, Jordan has radically transformed the terms of the environmental
debate. Other environmental ideologies posit either a fallen nature given to
exploitation by a redeemed and therefore innocent humanity, or posit a pristine
and inviolate nature immeasurably disturbed by an irretrievably wretched
humanity. Since there is a little monstrousness — a certain loss of sentimental
innocence — on both sides of the divide between humans and the rest of nature,
this acknowledgment can generate a newer solidarity with nature. There is,
Jordan says, a “continuity of shame” between humans and the rest of nature.

The
acknowledgment of shame, of our mortification at our human limitations, and of
the troubling brutality of nature, is not an end in itself. To merely stare
across the gulf between us and the rest of nature is to court horror, not
relationship. Relationship and its rewards come from dealing with shame. So,
what is the recipe for developing true community with nature through
restoration?

Ecological
restoration, meant in Jordan’s full sense, purportedly brings us into community
with the rest of nature in a number of distinctive ways. The practice makes us
aware of the repercussions of our ongoing involvement in sullying natural
systems. It provides a means of direct engagement with nature since, in
contrast to wilderness protection, for instance, it involves beneficent
trammeling (the restorationist is armed with a bow-saw rather than binoculars).
It is also redemptive insofar as it is “the first phase in the cycle of giving
and taking back that is the ecological foundation for any relationship.” To be
sure, the gift is inadequate and “unworthy.” If restoration culture enables us
to figuratively but productively deal with shame and with transcending shame,
then, arguably, we get to so-called higher values, including, Jordan argues,
beauty.

The
fact is that, for all of its claims to radicality, environmentalism is of a
piece with the shame-denying aspects of the broader culture it critiques.
Restoration ecology, by contrast, provides a new paradigm for thinking about
humans and nature.

The
front lines of the battle for nature are not the Amazon rain
forest or the Alaskan wilderness; the front lines are our backyards,
medians, parking lots, and elementary schools. The ecological warriors of the
future won’t just be scientists, engineers, or even landscape architects.
The ecological warriors of the future will be gardeners, horticulturists,
land managers, Department of Transportation staff, elementary school teachers,
and community association board members. Anyone who can influence a small
patch of land has the ability to create more nature. And the future
nature will look more and more like a garden.

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